


I Took A Sip From My Devil's Cup

by sock_in_my_drawer



Series: With the taste of a poison paradise [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Power Imbalance, Toxic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23823661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_in_my_drawer/pseuds/sock_in_my_drawer
Summary: Patrick makes Richie a little bolder, but it comes with a price.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Series: With the taste of a poison paradise [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669426
Comments: 45
Kudos: 128





	I Took A Sip From My Devil's Cup

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the delay, but I was consumed by the FF7 Remake for a week and had to put writing on the back burner. I also got my friend to beta this final fic in the series, so big thanks to her! Thank you to everyone who's read this series and left kudos and comments :)
> 
> **You can find detailed warnings in the notes at the end of the fic. I'm always willing to add additional tags and warnings, just let met know if you need something tagged :)**

July and August blend together in a monotonous haze of days that repeat themselves like clockwork. Richie scores a job at Video Shack, and it beats shelving dental equipment at his dad’s practice, but even the free movies lose their shine after a while, and he's pretty sure the girl he works with hates his guts.

He shoves another tape into the VCR on the counter, because Derry is full of assholes who don’t know how to be kind and rewind. He’s itching for a smoke, but his next break is still over an hour away, so he reaches into Lisa’s purse, left unguarded on the counter, and steals a stick of Juicy Fruit to occupy his mouth.

Business isn’t exactly booming, but there’s a group of boys huddled in the horror aisle, whispering and snickering at the gory covers on the VHS tapes, and Richie smiles to himself as he remembers doing the same with the Losers whenever they’d head to Bill’s house for a movie night. No one gave a shit about the plot as long as the cover had at least one severed head.

The boys approach the counter and the tallest kid in the group hands their pile of tapes to Richie like he’s handling a bomb. “We’ll take these,” the boy says while his friends nod behind his back like a bunch of little bobble-heads.

Richie goes through the tapes and lets out a whistle at the amount of blood, guts and violence. “That’s some gory shit,” he snorts, arching his brow. “How old are you guys?”

“Old enough,” they all say in a perfect chorus, and Richie almost loses his poker face right then and there.

He’s well aware of what the number 18 in a red circle on each tape stands for, but it’s basically a requirement to watch this shit in your formative years, a real coming-of-age ritual that ensures a kid doesn’t grow up a total weirdo.

Richie drums his fingers against the empty VHS cases and makes sure Lisa is still on her bathroom break. “I tell you what, I’m gonna let you guys rent these, but if you get caught, you’d better not rat me out or you’ll be watching nothing but Looney Tunes for the rest of your lives.”

The kids nod at him, vibrating with excitement as Richie disappears into the backroom to find the right tape for each case. There’s a wad of sweat-crumpled dollar bills waiting for him on the counter when he comes back, and the boys make a beeline for the exit as soon as they get their hands on their gory haul.

“Remember to be kind and rewind!” Richie yells as they scramble out in a storm of gangly limbs and loud whoops and giggles.

He settles back into his chair and kicks his feet up on the counter, shooting Lisa an innocent smile when she reappears in the store. She narrows her eyes at Richie, and yeah, there have been some trust issues between them since he ate her lunch from the break room fridge. The first two times were an accident, but the third time, well, Richie really wanted that turkey sandwich, because he may or may not have had the munchies.

“Did you touch my stuff again?” Lisa snaps, snatching her purse from the counter.

Richie shakes his head and blows a huge bubble with his gum until it pops and catches on the tip of his nose. Lisa continues to glare at him, and Richie ignores the _freakin’ loser_ she mutters under her breath as she goes back to organizing the shelves.

Richie sticks the flavorless gum under the counter and turns his attention on the TV attached to the ceiling where Fast Times at Ridgemont High is on for the umpteenth time that summer.

The bell above the door rings just as Phoebe Cates is about to climb out of the pool in her iconic red bikini, and Richie’s stomach twists into a knot when he spots Patrick’s dark hair and distinct slouch between the shelves.

“What the hell…”

Their paths don’t tend to cross in broad daylight, because the thing between them is supposed to come with an unspoken rule to keep it out of the public eye, a rule that has apparently slipped from Patrick’s mind.

Richie scrambles up from his chair and resists the urge to hide when Patrick strides up to the counter. “What are you _doing_ here?” he hisses, his eyes darting to the comedy aisle where Lisa is rearranging the tapes based on their color schemes, her ponytail bouncing against her shoulders as she hums the new Duran Duran song.

"Just thought I'd drop by between customers," Patrick shrugs, seating his ass on the counter like he owns the place. Richie has no idea what customers Patrick is talking about and he sure as shit isn't going to ask, because there’s no way a guy like Patrick Hockstetter earns his money through legal means. Patrick watches Phoebe undo her bikini top with disinterested eyes and reaches out to tug on a strand of hair next to Richie’s cheekbone. “When does your shift end?”

“When we close?"

“Well, when do you close, smartass?” Patrick snorts, spinning his finger around Richie’s hair, round and round, until his nail scrapes against his scalp.

Richie swats Patrick’s hand away when the bell above the door announces another customer. It’s the geeks from the AV club, and they all spin on their heels when they spot Patrick at the counter, backing out of the door like they’ve seen the boogeyman.

“Nice job repelling the customers, asshole,” Richie huffs, but it’s a little exhilarating to see people run away at the mere sight of Patrick, like he’s untouchable.

Patrick throws his hands in the air, his smile all faux innocence. “What? I didn’t even say anything.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ve noticed that everyone in Derry avoids you like the plague,” Richie says, rolling his eyes.

Patrick hops off the counter and circles around it, forcing himself into Richie’s personal space. " _You_ don’t.”

Richie opens and closes his mouth like a fish, and Patrick’s smile grows broader as he fails to respond. Because he still can’t justify any of this, even to himself, the things he does with Patrick, sometimes _for_ Patrick, the lies he has to tell to Bill and Stan to keep it all under wraps. Not that it’s hard when Bill is all wrapped up in his writing, and Stan is already thinking about colleges and life after Derry.

Richie has no plans beyond making enough money to finally buy his first car, preferably one that isn’t a complete piece of junk, and maybe catching whatever is playing at the Aladdin whenever he has his next night off.

“Come on, don’t play hard to get, Tozier,” Patrick groans. “It’s been four days since I got my rocks off with you.”

"Well, it's not my fault you chose to go to some dive bar in Bangor with Bowers," Richie points out, and if he sounds bitter it's because he is, just a little. Because why can't _he_ have a fake ID that gets him into seedy bars?

Patrick's face lights up, like he's stumbled on hidden treasure. "Holy shit, are you _jealous_?"

"What? No way!" Richie sputters, adjusting his glasses as Patrick crowds him against the counter.

"Aw, you wanna go steady?" Patrick coos, batting his lashes.

Richie bites his lip and resists the urge to smile at the stupid look on Patrick's face. “Screw you…”

"That can be arranged," Patrick smirks, arching his brow as he takes Richie’s hand in his own and strokes his thumb against the serpent on his finger. "Come on, when does your shift end?"

Richie's spine goes stiff when he sees Lisa’s heavily mascaraed eyes peeking at them through the gap in the shelves. “At nine, okay? My shift ends at nine,” he hisses, shifting away until the distance between him and Patrick is less conspicuous.

“I’ll pick you up at the Standpipe, sweet-cheeks,” Patrick says, and there’s no way Lisa didn’t hear him.

Richie watches him stroll out of the store and the tremble in his hands has nothing to do with his recently developed nicotine addiction. He doesn’t understand how Patrick can be so nonchalant about the whole thing, like he doesn’t give a shit if someone sees him be a freak in public.

Lisa rushes to the counter, her eyes bulging under her Aqua Net fringe. “Are you _crazy_?" And yeah, it seems that she’s put two and two together.

Richie prepares himself for the usual slurs, expects Lisa’s face to twist with disgust, but the only emotion Richie reads on her face is worry, for him.

"What are you talking about?” he mumbles, a little defensive.

“Hello-o? That was Patrick fucking Hockstetter,” Lisa says, waving her hands like Richie is both deaf and blind.

Richie rubs his thumb against the ring on his finger, and maybe, just maybe, Patrick’s complete lack of fear makes Richie a little bolder, too. “Yeah, so?”

"You do know the guy is a total psycho, right?"

Richie continues to twist the ring on his finger, unable to say anything in Patrick's defence, and he hates himself for actually feeling a little upset about it.

Lisa stares at Richie like he’s sold his soul to the Devil, the plastic hoops on her ears swinging against her cheeks as she shakes her head. "Whatever... It's your funeral.”

* * *

Richie is on his knees between Patrick’s thighs fifteen minutes after his shift is over. The shack in the junkyard is shrouded in shadows and Richie can barely make out Patrick’s face, but he tastes him on his tongue, hears the springs in the cot strain under his weight as he fucks into Richie's mouth.

He’ll die before he admits it, but he’s been waiting to do this all week, and every night Patrick picks Bowers and his goons over Richie, the itch under his skin gets a little worse. He has no idea if Patrick does these things with someone else on the nights when Richie sits at home and entertains himself with a sad wank or some late night talk show, and he does his best to smother the jealous thing that stirs in his heart at the thought.

Patrick’s nails scrape against Richie’s scalp as he fingers his messy mop of hair. “Take me a little deeper,” he pants, and Richie tries not to gag as Patrick bucks his hips up. "Yeah, you're a fucking natural."

Richie mewls at the praise and palms himself through his jeans, about to pull his zipper down when Patrick moves his foot between his thighs. He presses the sole of his bulky combat boot against Richie's crotch, the pressure of it a shock of pain and pleasure.

“Come on, get yourself off,” Patrick urges, his grin audible in his voice. Richie moans around Patrick's cock and his eyes roll back as he grinds against the dirty boot, "like a bitch in heat," Patrick chuckles, pressing down every few thrusts.

Richie's cheeks prickle with humiliation, but his cock leaks into his underwear, the fabric wet and sticky as he thrusts against the hard curve of Patrick’s boot. He’s drooling around Patrick’s cock, feels it spill down his chin, and his body goes taut with the orgasm building in his guts. He claws at Patrick's knees, just about to blow his load when Patrick's grip on his hair turns painful.

Richie’s sure he was being careful with his teeth and he shoots Patrick a hurt look through his fringe.

Patrick is staring at the open doorway, still like a deer observing its surroundings.

There’s a bright flash of light outside the shack and Patrick pulls out of Richie’s mouth at the sound of footsteps on gravel. “Fuck…” He sounds more annoyed than surprised as he yanks his jeans back up. “Come on, we gotta go,” Patrick hisses, his belt buckle clinking in the dark as he buttons his jeans.

“What? Why?” Richie squints his eyes and his stomach drops when he spots the dark shape approaching the shack. “What the fuck, there’s-- there's someone out there!”

Patrick pulls Richie up to his feet and presses his finger against his lips. “Quiet now.” They slip out just as the shack is illuminated by a bright flashlight beam, and Richie follows Patrick through the maze of car wrecks, his hand clutched around the hem of Patrick's button up.

“Who’s out there? I’ll sick Grinder on you little brats!” a voice calls behind their backs, and Richie’s heart leaps into his throat when the nighttime buzz of crickets drowns under angry barking.

“Shit, he brought the pooch...” Patrick grabs Richie’s wrist and forces him into a run.

“This is private property! If I catch you, I swear I’ll give you a taste of my double-barreled Bessie, right in the kisser!”

Richie’s heart pounds against his ribs and what little remained of his boner is effectively dead at the threat. “Who the fuck is that?” he wheezes as Patrick drags him towards the fence.

“Old man Jenkins. The asshole owns the place and I’m pretty sure he’s not kidding about pumping your pretty face full of rock salt.” They reach the fence and Patrick holds his hand out to Richie. “Come on, I’ll boost you up.”

The wire-link fence shakes and bends under Richie’s weight as he climbs up with Patrick’s help. He bombs his landing, and his elbows scrape against gravel as he rolls into a thicket of dry shrubs.

“Ow fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Patrick takes a running leap and pulls himself over the fence with considerably more grace, just in time to avoid the crossbred mutt that tries to sink its fangs into his ankle. It jumps against the fence, slobbering all over as Mr. Jenkins catches up with them, and yeah, that’s definitely a shotgun in his hands.

“Come on, Tozier, get the fuck up,” Patrick pants, lifting Richie up from the thicket by his armpits.

They make a run for his Pontiac and Patrick shoves the keys into the ignition, the flashlight beam slashing across the rearview mirror as they speed the fuck away.

“Holy shit,” Richie gasps, slumping against his seat. His lungs feel too small for his chest, but he’s high on the adrenaline from their narrow escape. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never lost a boner that fast.” He turns to look at Patrick and they burst into a hysterical fit of laughter.

“I swear to God, the next time I see that mutt, I’m gonna kill it,” Patrick says, sounding almost carefree, but there’s something in the clench of his jaw and the white-knuckled grip he has on the wheel that makes the laughter on Richie’s lips die. “I’ll fucking turn it inside out and hang it on the gate from its guts, see if that old bastard points his gun at us after that.”

Richie adjusts his glasses and makes a mental note to stay the hell away from the junkyard from now on, because what the fuck? Talk about morbid, not to mention oddly specific.

Patrick doesn’t seem to notice the sudden dead air that hangs between them. He lights a cigarette and throws his head back as he blows out a plume of smoke through his nostrils. “You wanna give me road head, continue where we left off?” he asks after a beat, wagging his eyebrows as he reaches down to palm himself through his jeans.

Richie shakes his head, his mind still hung up on the mental image of mutilated dog guts. “No thanks... You drive worse than my Nana and she’s, like, eighty.”

Patrick laughs at him, the really loud, honky kind of laughter that Richie hates, because there’s always a mean edge to it. "Oh yeah? Bet your Nana can’t do this." He kicks the sole of his boot against the gas pedal and turns the wheel left and right, letting out a deranged howl as the car swerves from curb to curb.

“You fucking maniac!” Richie reaches for the wheel in an attempt to stop Patrick’s cruising as the car picks up more speed. “Come on, stop it! I don't feel like becoming roadkill!” Richie yells over the roar of the engine, his throat closing up with genuine panic.

Patrick is still laughing when he pulls the car back from the dusty curb. “I’m just playing with you, babe,” he says cheerfully, smacking his palm against Richie’s head to give his hair a playful ruffle, like he didn’t just bring Richie close to cardiac arrest.

Richie shoves Patrick’s hand away. “Yeah, well, it’s a shitty fucking game.”

Patrick takes another drag from his cigarette and drops his hand to Richie’s thigh, tracing his fingers up and down the inner seam of his jeans. “Come on, I know you were about to cream yourself back in the shack. You’re still desperate for it, aren’t you?”

“Not when you’re trying to get us killed…” Richie mutters, his voice a little reedy. He swats Patrick’s hand away and pulls his legs together, the stench of nicotine and their combined sweat making him nauseous.

“Christ, you can be such a prissy bitch,” Patrick groans, blowing out a cloud of smoke through the seam of his lips. He thumps his head against the seat and shoves the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray. “ _Fine_ , I can pull over if that’s what you want. We can do it in the backseat.”

Richie doesn’t want to do it in the backseat where their long limbs are always in the way, and the springs that stick out from the tears in the upholstery dig into his spine. He stares at the lush trees on the banks of the Kenduskeag through his window and makes one of the dumbest decisions in a while.

“There’s this place nearby…” Richie points at a spot on the side of the road, right between Memorial Park and the Barrens. “You can park over there.”

Patrick arches his brow, watching Richie with curious eyes as he pulls the car to the curb and kills the engine. “You taking me on a romantic stroll or something?” he asks as Richie leads him into the woods, dry leaves crumbling under their feet.

The old path to the clubhouse is overgrown and barely visible, but Richie knows the way by heart, and he tells himself the heavy weight in stomach is indigestion instead of guilt.

“Seriously, what is this boy scout bullshit?” Patrick asks after a few minutes of hiking, the humor in his voice shifting into mounting frustration.

“We’re almost there, okay?” Richie stops to look around a familiar clearing, the August moon across the river illuminating it with its wan light.

Patrick stares at Richie like he’s lost his mind as Richie feels the ground with his feet, but his eyes widen with surprise when one of Richie’s sneakers thumps against wood. “What’s this, now?”

Richie uses his feet to clear the fallen leaves and twigs off the hatch and gives the metal hoop a yank, but the wood around the edges is swollen with water damage and disuse.

Patrick shoves Richie aside and takes hold of the hoop, the wiry muscles in his arms straining as he gives it a hard pull. He can’t be much stronger than Richie, but the hatch flies open after another yank, the smell of damp earth and mildew wafting into their faces from the dark hole in the ground.

Patrick fishes his zippo from his pocket and peeks into the abandoned clubhouse. “You got a secret love nest down there or something?”

“It’s just a place where I used to hangout,” Richie says, aiming for nonchalant, but he’s pretty sure Patrick can hear the way his throat pulls tight around the words.

“With Wheezy and Tits and the rest of the little rascals?” Patrick sneers.

Richie digs his nails into his palms as he thinks of Ben and the excitement on his sweet face when he invited everyone into the clubhouse for the first time. “Don’t call them that…”

Patrick kills the flame on his zippo and jumps into the dark maw in the ground, and Richie feels like he’s about to desecrate the grave of his childhood as he follows after him.

The place looks just how Richie remembers, the Lost Boys and Marty McFly still hanging on the walls, a little faded from the dank air. There are stacks of comics and Reader’s Digests Eddie used to steal from his mom for the creepy alien abduction stories piled on a makeshift shelf, and an unfinished game of cards on an overturned wooden crate.

Richie doesn’t let his eyes linger on the hammock for too long, the limp shape of it just a dark shadow in the corner of his eye.

“Nice digs,” Patrick says, the shadows on the walls shifting as he holds out his lighter and gives himself the grand tour. “Me and Bowers always wondered how you managed to slip away from us whenever we hunted you down in the Barrens.”

Richie glares at Patrick and snatches the zippo from his hand. “Thanks for the reminder,” he grumbles, and reaches up to light one of the oil lamps hanging from the wooden beams above their heads.

Patrick crowds Richie against one of the support beams and noses at the valley between his jaw and adam’s apple. “You were always my favorite prey.”

“That supposed to make me feel special or something?” Richie asks, incredulous. There’s still something uneasy in the air between them, but Patrick either doesn’t care or isn’t aware of it.

“Sure, why not,” Patrick murmurs, rocking his hips against Richie in a slow grind. “You wanna pick up where we left off?” he asks, and Richie feels his stomach clench with some unnamed dread as he watches Patrick make his way across the cramped space, right towards the--

“No, don’t!”

Patrick is in the hammock before Richie can stop him, a cloud of dust falling from the rafters as the strings pull tight around the beams under his weight.

And it’s like something straight out of the clown's playbook, the sight of Patrick Hockstetter in their little sanctuary, in the fucking hammock where Richie shared some of his favorite moments with Eddie before everything went to shit.

“Come on, hot stuff, it’ll hold us both,” Patrick says, patting his thighs as he kicks his foot against the floor for more speed.

Richie is frozen to the spot, his chest straining as he tries to fill his lungs. The whole space feels suffocating, the specters of his childhood with the Losers lurking in the shadows around him. He can almost hear Eddie’s high-pitched voice as he lectures Richie about Wolverine's healing ability, smells the cloying smoke of Beverly’s Marlboros as she and Ben laugh at something in the issue of MAD magazine that lays discarded on the floor, can picture Mike, Bill and Stan gathered around the makeshift table for a game of Crazy Eights.

Richie claws at his chest. It feels like his lungs are collapsing under his rib cage as his pulse throbs all the way up in his gums.

Patrick sits up in the hammock as he observes Richie’s erratic breathing. “Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I-I have to get out,” Richie gasps, spinning around on his heels. The whole place feels like a fucking grave. “I have to get out,” he repeats as he scrambles up the ladder, his palms scraping against the half-rotten wood.

He falls on his hands and knees in the foliage and digs his fingers into dirt as he sucks in the humid night air, but the tightness in his chest doesn’t ease up. He hears Patrick climb up behind him and jerks away from the hand that lands on his shoulder a moment later. 

“Don’t touch me!”

“What the fuck, Tozier?” Patrick snaps, his brows pinched in a confused frown.

Richie scrambles to his feet and darts off, shoving at the branches that lash against his cheeks as he sprints towards the street lamp in the distance, a beacon in the sea of panic he’s drowning in. He’s vaguely aware of Patrick calling his name, but it drowns under the pounding of his overworked heart, the toes of his sneakers knocking against roots and loose rocks.

He stumbles out of the woods, the bright flash of headlights blinding his eyes as he stares at the car coming straight at him. There’s a screech of tires and the lights swerve left and right, but Richie is frozen to the spot, like his feet are melting into the asphalt.

He’s gonna die in about three seconds and his life is a series of regrets. He never got to tell Eddie how he felt about him before it was too late, never saw the uncut version of The Exorcist, never broke Toby Marston’s record in Street Fighter, and he never had the courage to be himself.

Patrick yanks him back by the collar of his shirt at the last moment, and the car speeds past them in a blare of angry honks.

“You little idiot!” Patrick yells, wrapping his arms around Richie’s heaving chest like a vice. “I thought you said you didn’t wanna become roadkill!” Richie’s sneakers skid against the pavement as he tries to struggle free, his breaths shallow with panic. “Hey, hey, calm down.”

“I can’t! Fuck, I can’t!” Richie wails, his head spinning with the erratic way his lungs fill and empty themselves. He lets out a startled squeak when he feels Patrick’s long fingers close around his throat and _squeeze_. “W-what--”

“Calm. The. Fuck. Down,” Patrick repeats, his voice a low growl.

Richie’s adam’s apple bobs against Patrick’s palm as the airflow into his lungs slows down, his pulse drumming under the pads of Patrick’s fingers where they dig into the tender skin just under his jawline.

Patrick is strangling him.

“Stop--” Richie claws at the hand around his throat and his pulse spikes with a burst of adrenaline, but the urge to flee vanishes as his breaths begin to slow down.

His eyes leak salty trails down his cheeks and he stares at the street lamps on the edge of the park, their halos swimming in and out of focus.

“There you go,” Patrick murmurs, his lips brushing against Richie’s earlobe.

Richie’s lashes flutter against his cheeks and his head flops down against Patrick’s chest as his arms and legs go slack.

Patrick eases his hold around Richie’s neck just as he’s about to blackout. “You calm now?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over Richie’s jugular.

Yeah, he’s calm, because he’s barely fucking conscious. Richie’s cheeks prickle with heat as his heart pumps blood back into his brain, the panic in his chest morphing into something dull and compliant as Patrick continues to paw at his neck.

Richie hears Patrick fill his lungs, feels the way his chest expands against Richie’s spine. He tries to match the rhythm of Patrick’s breathing, inhale, exhale, inhale, “Yeah, that’s good,” Patrick nods, finally lowering his hand from Richie’s throat.

Richie lets Patrick walk him to the car, his steps unsteady like he’s drunk off his ass, but Patrick helps him stay on his feet. His vision swims with black dots and the muscles in his arms and legs twitch with leftover adrenaline as he slumps into his seat.

Patrick sticks the keys into the ignition and rests his forearms against the wheel, his expression unreadable as he watches Richie through the lanky veil of his hair.

"You-- You fucking strangled me!" Richie cries out, his voice thick with hurt and sheer disbelief.

Patrick’s eyebrows shoot up at the accusation. "I saved your ass from being splattered all over that Toyota’s windshield, you little shit."

"And then you strangled me!"

"I helped you to calm the fuck down," Patrick insists, and Richie hates that he sounds almost rational.

He rubs at his bruised neck and eyes the door handle. It's not too late to get the fuck out of the car, out of this whole fucking mess.

_Open the door and walk away, just leave, now._

"Hey…" Patrick cups Richie's face and draws his eyes away from the door. He combs his fingers through Richie’s hair, pushes it off his clammy forehead, and Richie can’t tell if the worried slant of his eyebrows is genuine or not. "You're still on edge, aren't you?"

"Yeah, no shit?" Richie croaks, wincing at the pain in his throat.

Patrick reaches into the glove compartment and digs through a mess of unpaid parking tickets and cassette tapes until he closes his fist around a plastic zip-lock bag.

Richie squints at the collection of pills inside and has a feeling he finally knows how Patrick makes his money.

“What are those?”

“Diazepams. My mom’s been popping them since I was five.” Patrick tilts the bag until one of the light blue pills rolls onto his palm. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger and offers it to Richie. “Say ‘ah’.”

Richie pushes his hand away, because, “what the hell are diazepams?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, like Richie is supposed to be familiar with random drugs like the junkies on Neibolt. “It’s just a Valium. Come on, it’ll make you feel better.”

Richie chews his lip as he eyes the pill between Patrick’s fingers. The panic that bulldozed him in the clubhouse has simmered down, but Patrick isn't wrong, he _is_ on edge, has been since '89. And if Derry's sad housewives can draw a chemical veil over the shit in their lives, well, why the fuck not.

Patrick’s eyes light up when Richie opens his mouth and he drops the pill on his tongue, patting his cheek.

_Good boy._

They cruise around the sleepy town and Richie starts to feel pleasantly numb somewhere between the Jade and the Paul Bunyan statue that looms in the shadows in Bassey Park. It's kind of like that time his dad had him high on laughing gas for a dental procedure, only ten times better, because it's like someone's put his brain on full pause, all the problems he’s ever had made irrelevant by one little pill.

Who cares if he gets stuck in Derry while his friends spread their wings and fly away. Doesn't matter that Eddie forgot all about him and is probably living the high life in Florida. And what-fucking-ever to all the insults he gets for being a dirty queer.

At least he’s not alone anymore.

Richie reaches down to unbuckle Patrick’s belt when they stop at the intersection between Jackson and Main, whatever inhibitions he had twenty minutes ago gone like a half-remembered dream. None of it matters here, in Patrick’s car, the world outside his window just a backdrop of quaint storefronts and late night dog walkers.

“Changed your mind, huh?” Patrick smirks as Richie parts his lips and lets Patrick feed his dick into his mouth.

_Richie Tozier sux flamer cock._

Fuck yeah, he does, and Richie can finally admit that he maybe, kind of loves it. Loves the weight of Patrick’s hand on his neck, the way his lips pull taut around Patrick’s cock as it slides past his tonsils.

His throat aches where he’s already starting to bruise and he’s half-hard against the seam of his jeans, but the pleasure feels diluted like everything else. 

Patrick thrusts into his mouth and his fingers start to wander, slithering down the length of Richie’s spine to paw at his ass. Richie feels the car slow down to a crawl, and he can guess what Patrick has in mind when he slips his hand into Richie’s jeans.

“You gonna let me fuck you if I pullover?” Patrick asks, already turning into the empty parking lot behind Freese's department store.

Richie lets Patrick’s cock slip out of his mouth and gives him a loopy smile. “I guess…”

“Yeah?” Patrick grins, giving Richie’s ass another grope.

There's a group of girls gathered around the display windows across the parking lot, and two cops in their cruiser, stuffing their faces with donuts and coffee, but other than that, it's a quiet night.

Patrick grabs the tube of lube they keep in the sun visor while Richie struggles to undo his jeans, his lax fingers slipping on the button.

“Jesus, you’re higher than I thought...” Patrick groans as he watches Richie fumble with his fly. He shoves Richie’s hand away and pulls his jeans down with impatient tugs until they lie discarded in the footwell. “Okay, bend over and I'll prep you before I get blueballs.”

Richie settles on his knees, his eyes glazed as he stares at his reflection in the window while Patrick works him open. Every muscle in his body is relaxed like he’s been soaking in a hot bath for an hour, and Richie wonders if he could float through the ceiling and disappear into the stars above Derry.

“Holy shit, you’re loose,” Patrick laughs, spreading Richie open with his thumbs. “I should have you pop a Valium every time we do this.”

Richie hums, a vague sound that Patrick is sure to take as consent, and fuck, maybe he’s right, because the three fingers in his ass are barely a stretch. He thrusts back into Patrick’s hand, and maybe he also kind of likes--- wait. Are the fingers gone?

“Any day now, Tozier…” Patrick slaps his ass to catch Richie’s attention, and Richie realizes Patrick’s been asking him to climb into his lap for the last twenty seconds.

Richie turns around, but there's a delay between his brain and limbs, and he can barely lift his leg over Patrick's thighs. His foot knocks against the gearbox as Patrick grabs a hold of his hips and pulls him over, and his glasses slip off his nose and disappear in a narrow gap between the seat and the center panel.

“You good to go?" Patrick asks, arching his brows as Richie continues to squirm in his lap.

Richie plasters his palm against Patrick's face, squeezing the length of his sunburned nose between his thumb and forefinger. He tries to say something, feels his tongue move against the roof of his mouth like a soggy eel, and the next thing he knows, he's sniggering at the sound of his own incoherent mumbling.

Patrick swats Richie's hand away and lets out an amused chortle as he takes in the vacant stare in Richie’s eyes. "Shit, you're really fucking out of it…”

Richie sags against Patrick’s chest and closes his fist around a tangle of dark hair as Patrick pulls his ass cheeks apart. He's vaguely aware that there’s no rubber between them, but the voice that nags him about safe sex and tends to sound like Eddie makes no appearance as Patrick slips inside.

The leather seat underneath them squeaks in time with Patrick’s thrusts and the windows around them are starting to fog over, sealing them in their own little bubble of debauchery. Richie rests his cheek against Patrick's shoulder and breathes in the scent of his cheap drugstore cologne, his eyes slipping closed as he starts to feel a little drowsy. There's a spot of drool seeping into the fabric of Patrick's worn button up from the corner of Richie's half-parted lips, and he loses his grip on Patrick's hair, his arm hanging limply against his flank.

Patrick shakes Richie's shoulders and lets out a frustrated groan, his blunt nails digging into the meat of Richie's ass. “Fuck… Can’t you tighten up a little? You’re too loose,” he grunts, gritting his teeth as he slides in and out of Richie's lax body. “You feel like a two-dollar whore.”

Richie whines at the insult, his cheeks burning in spite of the numb haze around his brain. "You’re the one who made me take that stupid pill,” he shoots back, or at least he thinks he does. Judging by the puzzled look Patrick gives him, there might be something wrong with his articulation.

Patrick rolls his eyes and grabs the lube from the dashboard. "I'm gonna try something, okay?" He gets his fingers wet and slips them back between Richie’s cheeks, watching him from the shadow of his brows. “Don’t freak out now…”

“What--” Richie’s spine goes stiff like he's stuck his fingers in a power socket and he lets out a startled cry at the addition of two long fingers around the girth of Patrick’s cock in his hole. “Ow, ow, ow! What the fuck?!”

“Hey, I told you not to freak out,” Patrick pants, closing his fist around Richie’s hair to keep him still.

Richie screws his eyes shut and withdraws into the fog of his own mind as Patrick throws his head back and starts to fuck him with the added stretch of his fingers, but even the Valium isn’t enough to dull the burn of it.

It doesn’t last long, thank fuck for small miracles. Patrick buries his face in Richie’s hair, panting like a racehorse as his hips buck up, his thumb digging into Richie's tailbone. He nuzzles his nose against Richie's hairline and Richie feels him pull out with a wet squelch.

"Hey..."

Richie leans back when he feels Patrick tug on his hair. His glasses are still MIA and the details of Patrick's face are a blur, but his hand on Richie's nape is almost gentle, and Richie leans into the touch like a plant yearning for sunlight.

Patrick reaches down to palm Richie’s cock, barely half-hard now, and spreads the slick mess leaking out between Richie's cheeks over his tender hole. “You think you can come?” he asks, circling his thumb and forefinger around the length of Richie’s cock. He doesn’t touch Richie very often, not when he's already blown his own load.

Richie wipes his eyes against the back of his hand and rests his forehead against Patrick's, the tips of their noses touching as they breathe the same air. "Please…"

The pleasure Patrick wrings out of him is more of a slow simmer than the usual blast of hormone-addled fireworks, and Richie feels a little raw when it finally spills out of him.

Patrick wipes his knuckles over the bow of Richie’s lips, and Richie watches him with half-lidded eyes as he licks his own load into his mouth.

“Shit, you’re a mess," Patrick snorts. He pushes Richie's hair off his flushed face and finds his glasses from their hiding place, setting them back on his nose.

Richie blinks as his world comes back into focus and gives Patrick a wry smile, the corners of his eyes still a little wet. "And you're an asshole."

Patrick drives them to Earl's gas station and they clean themselves in the restroom behind the car wash. Patrick is already waiting for him when Richie comes out of the stall, his lips wrapped around a cigarette. He drops it on the floor and crushes it under his boot as he comes to stand behind Richie's back, caging him in his arms.

Richie's eyes are like two empty holes in the slack canvas of his face as he blinks at Patrick through the dirty mirror. He tilts his head back, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks when he feels Patrick close his hand around his neck.

Patrick settles his fingers against the red marks under Richie’s jawline, the possessive edge of his touch mirrored in his eyes as they drill into Richie through their reflection.

Richie lifts his hand and presses his palm against Patrick's knuckles, the quiet moan that slips from his lips echoing from the broken tiles as he leans into Patrick's touch.

He's not getting out.

It's well past midnight when they end their cruising, the sky in the east already a paler shade of blue. Richie expects Patrick to drop him off at the usual spot in front of the old playground a few streets away from his house, and he throws him a puzzled look over his shoulder when they speed right past it.

"You think I'm gonna let you walk home when you can barely stay on your feet, Bambi? This town is full of shady characters."

"Yeah, and you're one of them," Richie snorts.

Patrick's smile turns crooked and he slides his hand up and down Richie's thigh. "Well, I don't share."

The rumble of his Pontiac is loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood, and Richie sees the lights come on in Mrs. Miller’s bedroom window when they pull in front of his house.

Patrick drums his fingers against the wheel, aware of their audience as Mrs. Miller's shadow shifts behind the frilly curtains. "Do I get a goodnight kiss?" he asks, and Richie doesn't miss the challenge in his eyes.

And fuck it.

Richie winds his arms around Patrick's shoulders and gives the nosy bitch something to talk about in her next bridge night as he flips her off and shoves his tongue into Patrick's mouth.

Because there isn’t a soul in Derry who will mess with someone who belongs to Patrick Hockstetter.

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings for: Richie has a panic attack and Patrick chokes him in an attempt to get his breathing to slow down, Richie is under the influence of a diazepam when they have sex.**


End file.
